Men of Faith
by hionlife
Summary: Sam's stolen car in Scarecrow has continuing repercussions.
1. Prologue

A/N: This sets up right at the end of Scarecrow and continues on between there and Faith. I wasn't going to post it, but then I figured...what the hey? You all haven't flamed me yet. Hope I'm not pushing my luck. ;)

* * *

Men of Faith, Prologue

* * *

When it's all said and done, Dean's ready to just hit the road. But before they can get in the car, Sam starts stuttering and shifting around from foot to foot. Dean settles back, crosses his arms, and leans against the hood, figuring that from the look on Sam's face, they'll be here another few hours at least. 

"What is it, Sammy?"

Sam looks up at him, wide eyed. "Well, I, uh…it's just that…"

"Today please, junior." Dean snaps his fingers.

"You know, um, that car I st--, er, borrowed?"

"Yeah." Dean slaps him on the back. "That was good work, man. Nice car, too. Them new ones are shit to wire."

Sam smiles halfway, but lets it drop. "Yeah, well, it was kind of a long drive from there to here and I had some time to poke around the car..."

"And you found a winning lottery ticket?" Dean asks hopefully.

"No."

Dean shrugs. "Twenty bucks?"

"No, Dean. It was…in the trunk…there was--"

"Guns?"

"No, no. Listen," Sam hisses. "Dean, there was a body in the trunk."

Dean reels back, nose scrunched up, and eyes incredulous. "A _human_ body?"

"Naw, man. A car body."

"Oh." Dean nods.

Sam shoves his shoulder. "Of course a human body. What the hell else?"

"Well, I don't know, Sam. You're being all cryptic here."

"I am not. You're just not listening."

"You stole a car. Body in the trunk. Saved my ass." Dean sighs and points to himself. "Left the car somewhere. Police find it later, wiped clean of prints, yes? End of story."

Sam shifts from left foot to right. "Well, uh, not quite."

"Sammy? What'd you do?"

"I just, uh, I just put him in the trunk." Sam shrugs and forces a smile.

Dean stops. Slowly, slowly, he turns to look at the back end of the Impala. "My trunk?"

"Yes." Sam nods.

"Are you trying to tell me that John Doe dead guy is now in _my_ trunk?"

"Uh…yes?"

"Care to explain why, brother?"

"'Cause I put him there."

"WHY?"

"I couldn't just leave him, Dean."

"YES, Sam. YES, you could have."

"Dean, he's a person. I couldn't just leave him somewhere and hope somebody would eventually find him."

"So you figured he could just come along for the ride?" Dean asks hysterically. He turns away before Sam can answer and drops his arms in annoyance. "Aww, man."

"It's not that bad." Sam circles around Dean. "We'll just take him to a hospital or something."

"I hate to tell you, Sammy. But I don't think they're going to be able to do much for the guy."

"I know that!" Sam hisses. "But they could do DNA testing. Dental records. Send him home."

"Alright." Dean nods and crosses the few feet to the trunk. He opens it, cursing and holding his breath in preparation.

It just looks like a lumpy thing, maybe garbage or clothing covered in an old, gray, army blanket.

"He in there?" Dean asks, still holding his breath.

"Yeah." Sam nods grimly, taking note of Dean's reddening face. "Don't worry. Doesn't smell. He's, you know,…fresh."

"Oh, _great_." Dean exhales with a whoosh. He picks at a corner of the blanket like it's a living thing and pulls it back fast.

The man's face is turned away from them, but he's wearing a dingy suit and his hair is carefully combed and still in place. He's older, maybe fifty or so, and his skin is thick and sun-weathered brown.

"Think somebody killed him?" Dean asks.

"Why else would he be in a _trunk_, Dean?"

"Maybe 'cause you put him there, braniac."

"I found him in a trunk!"

"And put him in mine!"

"What was I supposed to do?"

Dean doesn't answer, leaning over to examine the man again. He glances up at Sam. "How'd you get him in here anyway?" he asks, genuinely curious.

"With the keys."

Dean rolls his eyes. "No kidding. I mean, rigor mortis, right? How'd you--" He makes a folding motion with his hands.

Sam shrugs. "I told you he was fresh."

"Guess so." Dean reaches over and tugs at the man's suited arm. "Well, he's stuck now."

"Don't mess with him, Dean."

"Oh." Dean smirks and straightens. "Sammy's afraid of a dead body?"

"No. It's just, somebody _killed_ him. And he's so…_fresh_."

"As a new cut of beef," Dean agrees.

"Dude! Sick."

Dean laughs and pulls the blanket back over the man. "Alright, then." He closes the trunk. "Find a map, make some calls. There's got to be a hospital nearby."

"We'll have to wait until dark."

"Drop and run?"

Sam shrugs. "That, or med students making a transfer?"

Dean laughs and swings the driver's door open. "Never can do things the easy way, can we?"

* * *

The hospital parking lot is lit sparsely and crowded with cars, even at the midnight hour. Dean pulls up near the door and parks in a shadowed spot. 

"We got this?" he asks.

"I think so." Sam nods and tugs at the neck of his pilfered scrub top.

"Got your ID?"

"Yep." Sam holds up the badge declaring him to be Irwin Fester, med student from St. Francis Medical Center in Bargersville, Indiana. He clips it to his shirt. "Nice name there, by the way."

"Hey, I was short on time." Dean grins.

"You were short on something," Sam mumbles.

"What's that?"

"Nothin'."

Dean clears his throat. "Anyway. So, you got your ID. Go in, get the gurney and we'll get Freddy here situated." He gestures to the back seat where the body is now stretched out in a more appropriate position, rigor mortis having abated. Dean leans forward and peers out the window. "I'm back door man, here. Just get him in a hallway and leave him, Sammy, all right? No need to make it anymore complicated than it already is. Sound good?" He squints out into the dark.

"Uh…no, actually."

Dean turns to Sam. "What's the problem?"

Sam is seated sideways, facing Dean, eyes wide and startled. He points numbly to the backseat. "Wasn't me."

"What wasn't?"

Sam gestures to the back again and Dean finally turns, following his gaze.

A filmy apparition of the deceased is sitting up, leaning over the seat, face inches from Dean's own.

"Holy sh--" He jumps up, scrambling out of the car. "What the hell?"

Sam crawls out on the other side and leans over so he can see the ghost, sitting attentively in the backseat, partially on, or rather, inside of himself. His legs disappear back into his cold body.

"Sam!" Dean yells over the roof of the car. "There's a _ghost _in my _car_! Son of a... You know, a body was bad enough."

"Yeah." Sam straightens up and nods grimly. "This might be a problem."

* * *

tbc... 


	2. Chapter 1

A/N: Thanks again for the awesome response to the first chapter. I'll admit that, while I have a good portion of this done, it's rambling and out of order. Reviews like that really help motivate. :) It's also good to know that this makes somebody, other than myself, smile. Constructive criticism is SO welcome. Thanks.

* * *

Men of Faith, Chapter 1

* * *

"Alright." Dean takes a deep breath. "Okay. Nothing's changed. We still have to get rid of the body. The spirit will follow the body _out of my car_ and we can call it a night." He claps his hands and grins. "Easy."

Sam nods. 

"Um…excuse me?"

Dean leans into the car. "What?"

The ghost straightens his spine. "I don't think I want to go in there."

"Well too bad, Casper. You're going whether you like it or not."

"Dean." Sam quiets him with a glare and sinks back into the passenger seat. He turns to face the deceased. "Sir, I…" He presses his lips together and tries again. "This may be a bit of a shock, but, um…you're dead," he finishes bluntly.

"I'd figured as much," the man replies stiffly. "I do have eyes." He points at himself, the corpse on which he now sits.

"And, uh, you're okay with this?" Sam asks slowly.

"I don't see where I have another option, unless I intend to pull a Lazarus, eh?" He smiles goofily at his own joke.

Sam nods encouragingly and the man continues.

"I guess this must be purgatory then." He glances between Sam and Dean. "You two must have died awfully young."

Dean straightens his jacket and sits back in the car with a huff. "We ain't dead, Fred."

"You must be, though. This is purgatory. You _have_ to be dead."

"If this is purgatory, then what's your body doing here?" Dean raises his eyebrows.

"Oh." The man's faint features crease into a deeper frown as he takes in his still body. Slowly, he raises a hand and holds it in front of his face, finally noticing the translucent quality. "Huh."

Dean rolls his eyes.

"Dean." Sam's voice is suddenly tense and he motions out the windshield.

A security guard is prowling the parking lot, wandering closer and closer to their car. Their car, with a very visible corpse sprawled on the backseat.

Just as the guard flicks his flashlight on and over the hood, Dean starts the engine and pulls away, sending a sarcastic salute to the guard as they cruise past. He turns out onto the main road. "Cover him up, would you?"

Sam reaches over the backseat to cover the body with the wool, army blanket.

"Am I a ghost?" the man asks as the blanket passes through his abdomen and settles there.

"Something like that." Sam nods. "Are you sure you're okay with all of this?"

"I don't feel any different," the deceased says slowly. "You'd think you'd feel different, but I don't. I'm just…curious." He glances between them, looking for reassurance that isn't quite there. "As long as you two didn't kill me, I seem to be in good hands, eh?" He smiles nervously and swallows. "You didn't, did you?"

"No!" Sam answers quickly as Dean starts to laugh. "No, we didn't. We just found you."

"In a trunk?"

"Yes." Sam nods.

"In _your_ trunk?"

"No, well, yeah. I mean, you were in this car that I stole, or, uh, borrowed."

"What were you stealing a car for?" the ghost asks critically.

"Hey buddy," Dean interjects. "I don't think you're in any position to be judging."

"No, it's okay," Sam says quickly.

"Naw, Sam. He's just a stupid spirit. And let me tell you, upstanding citizens don't often find themselves in trunks."

"People get kidnapped, Dean."

"Does he look like a kid to you?"

"It doesn't matter. You know that. Anybody can be kidnapped."

"He's probably a drug dealer or something," Dean goes on irreverently. He looks into the rearview mirror. "Deal gone bad, Freddy?"

"Dean, I don't think…"

"Actually," the man interjects calmly. "I was a priest."

* * *

"This just keeps getting better and better." Dean sighs and fixes Sam with a glare across the table. "And it's your fault." He points his fork at Sam. "Putting the dead guy in _my_ trunk."

"His name is Father Henry." 

"I prefer dead guy."

"Of course you do." Sam pushes his mashed potatoes around on the plate. He wasn't really hungry, but they had some time before they could make a second attempt at the hospital and Dean had insisted they stop for a bite.

Opposite Sam in the booth, Dean inhales his sandwich like it isn't two o'clock in the morning and they don't have a dead body in their backseat.

"How can you eat that now?"

Dean shrugs and talks around a mouthful. "It's _good_."

"Uh-huh." Sam nods skeptically.

"Want a bite?" Dean offers him the sandwich.

"Nope." Sam grins tightly and holds up a forkful of mashed potatoes. "Got my own." It doesn't even smell appetizing though. Reluctantly, he sets his fork down and pushes the plate to the side. He leans over to peer out the window, cupping his hands to block the light from inside the diner. "You think he's okay out there?"

"Nobody's going to _steal_ him, Sammy."

"I know." Sam rolls his eyes.

"And I wouldn't bet on him running away."

"No kidding."

"He seems to be pretty well adjusted," Dean finally says seriously. "I don't think you need to worry."

Satisfied with this, Sam leans back in the booth and stretches his legs out into the aisle. "So how do you think he died?"

"Good dinner conversation." Dean grins.

"It's two o'clock in the morning, man. Seriously. I didn't see any wounds." Sam shrugs. "If it was murder, there'd be evidence of that, right?"

Dean sets his food down and takes a swig of water. "Did you see those red marks on his neck and hands?"

"No." Sam shakes his head. "What, you think he was strangled?"

"No, no. They're not like that. They're big splotches, sort of like a rash. It's called lividity."

"Lividity?"

"Yeah. When a body dies, the blood isn't flowing anymore so it starts to pool in the veins and stuff. It causes discoloration on the skin, called lividity."

"Good dinner conversation." Sam smirks.

"Yeah, well." Dean shrugs. "On our man, Henry, those marks were bright, scarlet red."

"So what's that mean?"

"It means he was murdered." Dean wavers for a moment and shrugs again. "Or suicidal."

"How?" Sam leans forward. "What killed him?"

Dean takes a huge bite of sandwich, throws his head back and croons in the worst AC/DC rendition ever, "_Concrete shoes_!"

Sam stares at him for a long moment before it clicks and he can finish the line. "Cyanide."

* * *

"Cyanide?" Sam repeats, trying to make the idea a little more graspable. "People really do that?"

"People really do that." Dean nods. 

"I thought it was just in James Bond movies and those cheesy mystery novels."

"You read cheesy mystery novels?"

Sam blinks. "No."

"Uh-huh." Dean smirks.

Sam frowns at him. "Can we be serious for two seconds, please?"

"You were the one that brought up James Bond."

"Dean. We have to figure this out. I mean, why would someone do that to a priest?"

"We don't have to figure anything out, Sam. We're dropping off the body and then we're done with it. Keepin' our hands clean."

Sam purses his lips. He leans forward onto the table. "Do you think…" He whispers. "Don't you think _he_ knows?"

"How he died?" Dean raises his eyebrows. "No way."

"But, I mean…he was there, right?"

"Yeah, Sam." Dean rolls his eyes. "The guy was probably present at the time of his death."

"So why don't we ask him? Why wouldn't he know?"

"One." Dean holds up a finger. "We don't want to know. And two; Bad shit happens when dead people remember how they died."

"They get angry?" Sam guesses.

"Exactly."

"But Henry seems pretty okay with everything. He isn't…vengeful."

"It doesn't matter how he seems. Ghosts and spirits, new ones anyway, it's like they're dreaming they're falling and never hitting the ground. If he remembers, if we make him remember…"

"Splat?"

Dean nods grimly. "Yep."

* * *

Dean has this aversion to religious leaders. He respects them, sure, he just doesn't like to be within three feet of the people.

Sam figures it has something to do with Pastor Jim frequently warming his knuckles with a ruler. 

"Alright, Father," Dean says as he sits behind the wheel, back at the hospital and more than ready to get rid of the body already. "We're going to do this again."

"Try again," Sam interjects pessimistically.

"Do or do not do," Dean deadpans. "There is no try."

Sam scoffs. "Yeah, okay Yoda."

Dean shoves his shoulder. "Man, just go get the gurney already."

"Wait a minute."

They turn simultaneously to see Father Henry. "What?"

"What exactly are you boys planning to do?"

"We're just going to drop your body off here."

"So they can send you home."

Henry squints his ghostly eyes at them. "Why can't _you_ just take my body home?"

"We don't know where you're from."

There's a pause.

"I know where I'm from," Henry says.

Dean groans and leans forward to rest his forehead on the steering wheel. "Better and better, Sammy. Better and better."

* * *

"Why can't we just airmail him?"

"_He_ is sitting right behind you, Dean." 

"Hey, buddy," Dean calls, glancing in the rearview mirror. "Would you mind if we stuck your, uh, _you_ in the out-of-town box?"

Henry turns slowly away from the window. "I don't think I'd fit."

"He doesn't think he'd fit." Dean laughs quietly, glancing over at Sam. "We'd just have to get a really big box…some of those peanuts…duct tape and shove him in there with…bubbles…" He trails off, catching the glare Sam is sending him. He clears his throat. "Anyway, I'm just saying, you know, it would save us the trip."

"We'd probably be passing through here next week anyway," Sam points out. "It's not going to save us any trip. We're always…tripping."

"_You're_ always tripping."

"Shut up."

"You first."

"Are you kidding me?"

"So…" Father Henry interrupts calmly, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the front seat. "You boys live out of this car?"

If he thinks it's a good way to diffuse the situation, he's wrong.

"Sort of."

"Pretty much."

"There are resources at the church," Henry says slowly. "We have many programs to help the homeless."

"We aren't homeless," Dean snaps quickly. "We just…"

"Live out of a car?"

Dean falls silent at this and Sam dares a glance over at him. Personally, he'd never thought of them in those terms, never even crossed his mind, not even in all those times growing up that he had spent cold nights curled in the backseat, because they couldn't find or afford a motel.

They had a home it was just different. It was every room in every lodge and motel they stayed at. It _was_ the Impala. It was everywhere Dad and Dean were.

"We just travel a lot," Dean finally says. "For work."

"And what is your work?" Henry asks in a tone that implies he still sort of thinks they might be hit men.

"We help people," Sam says. "Like you to…crossover."

"You make us sound like John Edwards," Dean gripes.

"And you travel a lot to do this?" Henry asks, undaunted.

"Yep. All over the country." Dean grins at him. "Even Utah."

"You know," Henry says thoughtfully. "I've been to South America and Africa and Europe doing missionary work, but I never made it east of the Mississippi."

"Actually, you did."

"In _life_." Henry frowns at Dean. "I always wanted to see New York City. The Statue of Liberty."

"You aren't missing much," Sam puts in, in an effort to make him feel better. "It's just a big statue. And it's moldy."

"Still." Henry shrugs. "I'd like to have seen it for myself."

"No regrets," Dean tells him.

Henry turns again to look out the window, at the dark plains spread out around them. "Everyone has regrets," he says quietly. "You're lying to yourself if you think you don't. The trick is just not to get hung up by it. The past is the past. I could never regret the life I lived anyway. It would be a disservice to everyone I ever loved or knew. This death thing though…" He shakes his head and smiles wryly. "I have to say, it's not quite what I expected."

"Sorry to disappoint."

"Oh, it's not disappointing, Dean. It's just not what I'd always thought. I figured I'd move on right away. Never thought I had so many issues. Unfinished business." He glances between them and goes on when neither of them says anything. "But that's what you two are for, eh? My very own spiritual guides."

"Spiritual guides." Dean scoffs. "Even better."

"That's not what you do? I mean, I'll admit you're not exactly what I would expect either. A bit unconventional…I never thought the afterlife would be spent in the back of a car, being trucked around by a couple of kids with bad manners."

"_Bad manners_?" Dean interrupts, clearly put off. "You think _we_ have _bad manners_?" He turns to Sam. "Tell him, Sammy. We're the politest bastards you could ever run into."

Sam gapes at him, shifting uncomfortably. "Um…"

"Never mind," Dean goes on. "Are you sure we can't UPS him?"

"No." Sam glances between his brother and Henry, who is smiling impishly, clearly enjoying rattling them. "Definitely not."

"Yeah," Dean agrees and sighs. "Postage would be insane anyway."

* * *

tbc... 


	3. Chapter 2

_A/N: Quick question for my own curiosity, if you care to review could you tell me (1-10) how morbid this is? One being not at all and ten being heck yeah, a whole lot. I would very much appreciate that._

_Also, for those that might have been curious, UPS charges on Henry from Indiana to Utah would've been about 650 dollars. Because, yeah, I really looked it up. :)_

_-----------------------------_

Men of Faith, Chapter 2

------------------------

Gallup, Utah is the kind of town people don't ask questions in. A city big enough to provide anonymity to those that might want it.

Father Henry's church, Saint Aldhem's, is located in the north end of downtown, sandwiched between a bank and the twenty-four hour mart.

Dean slams on the breaks hard when Henry suddenly points it out, squealing the tires and forcing Sam to brace himself on the dash.

From the back, a rough thud can be heard as Henry's body clunks around in the trunk.

"Would you quit doing that?" Sam huffs, straightening himself and everything else that had gone flying forward.

"Sorry." Dean grins insincerely and steers into a curbside parking space across from the church.

The streets are mostly dark and empty now. A single light over the front doors of the church casts long shadows on the sidewalk in the early morning hours.

"So…" Dean taps his fingers on the steering wheel, anxious still to be rid of the body. "Where should we put you?"

"In the back." Henry nods, apparently having thought about it. "The side door is always unlocked and there's a hall to the left of the door that leads to the rectory. You can put me there."

"Will anyone else be here?" Sam asks.

Henry shakes his head. "Not this time of night. Sometimes we get a few homeless sleeping in the pews, but you should be able to slip right down the hall without being noticed."

"Perfect. Let's go." Dean jumps out of the car and strides around to the trunk without a second thought.

Sam hesitates a moment longer. "Listen, Henry. I'm sorry about everything. It really was good to meet you."

Henry nods in understanding. "Thank you," he says quietly. "Both of you. You do good work you know that? The Lord's work." He smiles and gestures Sam away. "Go on, then. Take me home."

Sam waves, a brief salute, before joining his brother at the back of the car.

Dean stands there, arms crossed, studying the covered bundle. "You want to carry him?" he asks, turning to Sam.

"Why don't you?"

"He's your friend, not mine, Sammy."

"He's not my friend, Dean. He's dead," Sam huffs. "We'll both carry him, alright? You get his shoulders and I'll get his feet."

"_I'll_ get his feet."

"No, I'll…" Sam stops himself and runs a hand over his face. "Fine, whatever." He sighs. "I'd rather not touch bony, old, dead guy ankles anyway."

"Well, I'd rather not have dead guy face in _my_ face," Dean counters with a smile. "So it all works out just peachy."

"Oh, yeah," Sam agrees sarcastically, leaning over to pick up Henry's shoulders. "Just peachy."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sam ends up having to hold Henry by himself anyway, propped up in the alley between the church and the mini-mart, while Dean ducks in to be sure no one is around.

Henry's body is, well, dead weight, hanging limply on Sam's shoulder. He's still wrapped in the blanket, but honestly, Sam suspects it's mostly for show. There's no hiding what something that size and shape is by a measly blanket. Sam adjusts Henry's weight again, when Dean pushes the door open, a draft of warmth and light with it, and motions Sam in. He ducks through the door.

Inside the church, it's warm, and flickering candle light dances off the walls. It smells heavily like incense and old wood.

Dean leads the way, not even glancing toward the rows of pews. He rounds the corner fast into a narrow, dark hallway. At the end of the hall, a curtain, partially closed, separates a living space from the church.

The church's candlelight casts down the hall, creating bizarre and dancing shadows that illuminate a couch and coffee table sitting on one side, while a small table and kitchen space take up the rest of the room.

Dean gestures at the couch and shrugs. "Leave him here?"

Sam frowns, taking in the room with narrowing eyes. The couch certainly wasn't ideal, but there wasn't really another option, as he didn't feel much like investigating further into the living space. Sam sighs and moves forward to ease Henry onto the couch, leaning him back onto the cushions.

Dean reaches over to pull the blanket from Henry's shoulders. "We'll have to get rid of it," he says quietly.

"Yeah." Sam nods. He glances around. "Maybe we should say something."

"Like what?"

"Like…a prayer. I don't know."

"Pray away, Sammy." Dean clasps his hands and waits.

"I…I don't know, Dean. You say something."

"I'm not really the praying type. Especially not out loud."

"Well then, in your head," Sam decides easily and nods. "We'll both just say something quietly in our heads."

"Say something quietly in my head?" Dean raises an eyebrow and scoffs. "Sometimes, I really cannot believe we're related."

"Just do it," Sam hisses.

Dean frowns, but closes his eyes after a moment anyway, and Sam does the same, reciting as much as he can remember of the Hail Mary and then adding a few words of his own in respects to Father Henry.

When Sam looks up in the dim, dancing light, Dean's head is still bowed. Apparently, he's found something to say to somebody, Sam realizes. He'd heard Dean praying lots of times before, mostly when they were kids, mostly when something big and scary was on their tail. Those times, Dean had prayed very loudly and punctuated his words with very colorful, four-letter interjections.

It really isn't so hard to believe though, with everything they've seen, that someone good might be out there listening. He'd have to try and convince Dean of that someday.

When Dean finishes and raises his head, Sam is eyeing Henry in concern. "Are you sure this is going to work?" he asks.

"What?"

"Leaving him here. Shouldn't we just salt and burn to really be done with it?"

"Sam," Dean hisses. "Are you kidding? You make a big show of taking the guy home and now you want to _burn_ him?"

"Um…right. Bad idea."

Dean makes a "duh" face and shoves him down the hall. "Anyway, we'd be destroying evidence. He was murdered remember? And of course it'll work. There's no reason for his spirit to be attached to us. He's attached to his body, and probably will be, until it's interred."

"I hate that word."

"What?"

"Interred," Sam whispers.

"Man." Dean grins and pushes open the door, back out into the alley. "You are such a girl."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Alright." Dean rubs his hands together anxiously, standing next to the car. "Onward and upward. Now that we've taken care of your little problem, we can get on with things."

"What things?" Sam asks skeptically.

Dean shrugs as he pulls open the driver's side door. "Got word of a Rawhead up in, uh, Iowa or Missouri…or…it might've been Kentucky. One of them states in the middle." He shrugs again and slides behind the wheel as Sam crawls in on the other side.

"I see you've got the details down."

"Not really my thing."

Sam opens his mouth to reply, but there's a soft cough from behind them that interrupts.

"Clearly."

Dean whips around, eyes flashing angrily at the ghostly priest perched attentively in the backseat. "What the _hell_ are you still doing in my car?"

Sam turns around too, eyes wide, but then softening. He raises a hand in greeting of Henry.

Dean slaps his hand down.

"So." Sam smiles awkwardly. "Guess it didn't work, huh?"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"This is some mess you've made here, Sammy."

They sit in a booth at a chain diner in the south end of Gallup. Dean pokes at his breakfast while Sam chews on some scrambled eggs.

"It's not that bad."

"You could've just left him alone," Dean goes on heatedly. "You could've just left him in the car. You could've called in a little tip to the pigs and been done with it. I didn't even have to know. I didn't even have to be involved."

"Sorry to disrupt your busy schedule."

"But, no," Dean gripes on, glaring up at Sam. "You just _had_ to take care of it yourself. Just had to put him in _my_ trunk and now he's all…" Dean drops his fork and waves his hands wildly. "ATTACHED!"

"At least--"

"Don't even say it, Sammy." Dean holds up a hand and shakes his head.

Sam goes on, undaunted. "I was just going to say that at least he isn't vengeful or anything."

"At least," Dean huffs. "At least. That doesn't mean anything, Sam. The ghost is now attached to my car! I have to exorcise _my car_!"

"Maybe not…"

"I'm sorry, maybe you didn't hear me. Ghost in CAR, Sam! Ghost in MY car!"

Sam ducks his head. "Do you always speak with one-syllable words when you're angry?"

"Sammy." Dean leans onto the table and smiles bitterly, a dangerous glint in his eye. "Were you just trying to be funny right there?"

Sam reaches for the ketchup bottle. "Um…yeah?"

"Do you know what happens when the straight guy tries to be the funny one?" Dean asks seriously.

Sam pours more ketchup onto his eggs and grins. "Chaos and destruction of the universe as we know it?"

"Naw, dude. The funny guy totally KILLS him. DEAD!"

"Mind your blood pressure, Dean," Sam sings.

If it were possible for steam to come out of one's ears, it would be pouring out of Dean's right then and Sam is only happy to fuel the fire. It's not often that he gets to torment Dean, as Dean had he growing up.

Dean grabs a slice of toast and shoves the entire piece in his mouth, chewing furiously.

"Small bites there, Dean," Sam reminds him. "Wouldn't want to choke."

Dean makes a sound that is suspiciously close to a growl and mumbles something, spraying toast crumbs across the table.

"What's that?" Sam cups a dramatic hand to his ear. "You think Clay Aiken is the shit? Man, I had NO idea."

Dean's eyes grow wide and then he does choke, coughing and spluttering, little pieces of barely chewed toast flying onto the table.

Sam reaches over to pat him on the back in between laughter.

Seeing the commotion, their waitress saunters over, looking like she just hopped off the train from Vegas. Crimped, bleach blond hair and thick, black eyeliner. "Everything all right?" she asks.

"Just fine." Sam grins up at her breezily. "Right, Dean? Things just keep getting better and better, don't they?"

Dean takes a swig of coffee and turns pleading eyes on the waitress. "Can we have the check, please?" He glares at Sam. "We're leaving, _now_."

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Sam lies on the motel bed, stretched out on his back. "Man, I feel like I haven't slept in days."

"Maybe 'cause you haven't," Dean snipes, yanking the heavy curtains closed to block the morning sun. He shuffles over to the other bed and flops facedown, not bothering to undress or even remove his shoes. "We'll just get a few hours," he mumbles into the pillow.

"And then?" Sam prompts.

Dean sighs. "And then we'll…figure something out."

"I really don't want to have to exorcise the guy."

"Yeah, well, we could always just wait until he's interred."

"Don't say that."

"Interred." Dean smiles.

"Or," Sam says loudly to block him out. "We could figure out who killed him and why and then he'd be at peace, right? Unfinished business finished."

"Or, we could wait until he's interred and hope he goes away." Dean smiles wider. "After he's interred. Sometimes spirits just move on once their bodies are interred."

Sam rolls his eyes. "It's not funny."

"What's not?"

"You." Sam sighs and crosses his arms, sinking deeper into the pillow. "Saying that."

"Saying what?"

"You know what."

"Interred?" Dean guesses innocently.

Sam closes his eyes. "It's not going to bother me."

Dean chuckles quietly and rolls onto his side, getting comfortable and closing his eyes.

The motel room is fairly quiet, but outside, the world is just waking up. Their schedule couldn't be any more backwards and if they kept up like this, Sam considers, staying up for days and sleeping when they should be awake, neither of them would make it to see fifty. Of course, with all the other dangers this life poses, it's doubtful that the stress of screwy circadian rhythms would be the thing to do them in.

Sam reaches over to pull the comforter up and over himself. Day or night or whatever, he just needs to sleep. And he's almost there, drifting off to the in between dreamy state that's almost sleep but not quite, when Dean's voice cuts into his consciousness.

"In-TERRED!" Dean yelps enthusiastically, punching a fist up toward the ceiling.

Sam jerks back awake, to Dean's ever-loving amusement. He glances over at Dean's laughing face and scowls. "You are so unfunny, dude."

"Interred?"

"Shut UP!"

"_Interred_," Dean stage whispers.

Sam sits halfway up and whips his very flat pillow across the room to smack Dean in the face. "You're a friggin' jerk. Now shut up and sleep." Sam flops back down, using his arms as a pillow and closing his eyes.

Dean takes a breath and opens his mouth.

"Don't," Sam interrupts, not moving. "Don't even think it."

Dean smiles and closes his eyes, ready for sleep now that his mission is accomplished. "Not thinking," he agrees quietly, already drifting off.

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Dean had always thought that those detective guys in old movies were pretty damn cool. Like Humphrey Bogart, saved the day, solved the mystery, got the girl, and wore really cool hats. But despite these thoughts, he'd never really wanted to _be_ one of those guys.

"We're the Ghostbusters," he says to Sam, sitting across from him at the tiny motel room table. "Not Inspector Gadget."

Sam just stares at him.

"You know…the detective guy…"

"Yeah, I know, Dean."

Dean widens his eyes expectantly. "So, we're not going to do this."

"Yes, we are."

"No, Sam. We hunt supernatural stuff. We do not solve murders committed by _people_."

"What do you want to do then, Dean?"

"Let the cops handle it. I'm not going to go hunting Henry's killer just to put his spirit at rest. That's what police are for."

"Police put spirits to rest?"

Dean glares. "You know what I mean."

"Never thought you'd talk up the cops."

"Yeah, well…" Dean shrugs.

"That'll take forever, you know," Sam points out. "Henry just hanging out in the backseat for months and months while the police twiddle their thumbs. We could do this and you know it, so why the hell not?"

Dean sighs and scrubs his face with the palms of his hands. "'Cause I don't want to," he finally says. "I hate people. They're insane and they don't always follow patterns and they don't always have a motive. That's why not."

Sam leans back in the chair and crosses his arms. "We could at least go talk to some people at the church. See what kind of person Henry really was."

Dean sighs loudly. "That'll make you happy?"

"Yes."

"Okay, then. Fine. But that's it. If we don't get any leads from there, we don't dig any deeper, all right?"

"Okay," Sam agrees easily.

"And then we exorcise him."

"I really don't want to do that."

"Yeah, well, I don't want to do this. It's called compromise, Sammy. Look it up."

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tbc...


	4. Chapter 4: New January 18th

A/N: _-Firstly, lemme apologize for the super long delay. I lost my jump drive with the final few chapters on it and had a time of it trying to convince myself to rewrite them.  
__-I rearranged the previous chapters, nothing changed in them, just smashed them together, so fewer, longer chapters instead of all those short ones. I'm going to pretend this has nothing to do with wanting to end up with 5 chapters (a nice, even, whole number) instead of 7.  
-It might get a little angsty here. I've written myself into a pretty serious spot.  
-The CRS stands for Catholic Relief Services. __  
__-Thanks to anyone that's still interested and still reading my goofy ramblings. Please mind the plot holes. ;)_

_-----------------------------------------------------------------------_

Men of Faith, Chapter 4

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From the driver's seat, Dean watches as Sam's tall form disappears into St. Aldhem's. It's early evening, and the setting sun creates deep shadows in the alley where they've parked.

In the dark car, Henry's translucent features glow filmy white.

Dean taps his fingers on his thigh, glancing between the rearview mirror and Henry and the church door Sam had gone in. He reaches over to mess with the radio, turning the knob one way and then back in the other direction, eventually settling on the station they'd been listening to all along.

"Idle hands," Henry comments with a slow smile.

Dean scarcely acknowledges him with a frown, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel now. After another few minutes, he opens his mouth wide and yawns. "Man, I'm thirsty."

"You can lead a horse to water, but you cannot make him drink," Henry says.

Dean pauses in his fidgeting and frowns at Henry in the rearview mirror. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"There's a mini-mart next door. I go…I _went_ there quite often. Good slushies," the priest remarks quietly.

Dean has to smile at this. "Thanks, but I think I'll wait for Sam. Kid gets cranky if he misses out on the slushies."

Henry nods knowingly. "I'd be careful, though. Especially this time of night. That place has been held up more times than I can recall. It's a terrible thing. Just last week, in fact, I was…" He stops.

The car is quiet for a moment before Dean turns. "Henry?"

The ghost's filmy eyes move to meet Dean's. His mouth opens and closes. "Just last week…"

Dean frowns, waiting for him to finish.

"I…I was there." Henry nods stiffly, eyes growing wide. "I was there. He shot the attendant and I saw it. I saw them."

Dean swallows thickly, glancing past Henry for a moment and out the back window, into the dark alleyway. "That's why," he says quietly, not quite a question.

"I was in this alley," Henry goes on as if not hearing him, growing more agitated. "That's when…I don't know. He must've hit me over the head. I woke up in the trunk and…I…I don't know. I don't know."

"You were poisoned," Dean tells him softly. "Probably cyanide or something similar."

Henry's eyes are wide and startled. He looks to be even whiter, or maybe thinner, more transparent. "A glass of water," he whispers, harsh in the stillness of the car. "Just a glass of water."

Dean turns away from him, swallowing thickly and moving to open the door. "I've got to get Sam."

"Wait." Henry reaches out for him. "What does this mean? Why would they…I don't…I don't understand." His eyes are angry and pleading, expecting Dean to explain this, the injustices of the world and the crimes of those people in it.

Dean looks away. "I'll be right back," he says and shoves his door open.

The tide of events has just turned against them. Now that Henry knows how he died, he isn't a floating, happy, new spirit anymore. He's just hit the ground and the fallout isn't usually pretty. Vengeance, anger, and violence, all things Dean would rather not deal with, especially not from someone he now knows. Angry spirits are bad enough, worse yet when you know them…or are related to them.

It was time to get Sam out of the church, give up their little whodunit act and just exorcise Henry from the car, consequences be damned, before things got ugly.

Dean closes the car door on Henry's protests and escalating angry words and starts down the alley for the church door. It's eerily quiet for this time of early evening. He can hear a few people talking out on the street, laughing.

The shuffle of Dean's own footsteps echoes off the narrow alley walls. But, just as he nears the door, a second and then a third, much faster shuffling of steps can be heard, coming up fast behind him.

Dean turns quickly and is barely able to take in two figures in black ski masks, before pure, defensive instinct kicks in and he swings at the nearest one, knocking him down.

He turns to the second man, but before he can make a move, the masked man shoves a can of pepper spray in his face, blinding and choking him, every ounce of capsaicin burning on his skin, like the bite of a million fire ants.

Dean stumbles away, hands going for his face, coughing and groping for the church door. "SAM!" he yells as loudly as he can. It's last ditch, it's desperate…and it doesn't work.

A gloved hand grabs at his shoulder. Something heavy and hard collides with the back of his head and in the midst of a splintering pain; everything goes dark.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Dean wakes, he has to blink a few times just to be sure his eyes are truly open. It's pitch, midnight black and there's a strange, muffled rumbling from somewhere off behind him.

He's hesitant to move, lying still and curled on his side. His head throbs and his eyes and throat tingle and burn with the residue of the pepper spray. It's dark and it's warm, but there doesn't seem to be anyone around. No use just lying there, so after a deep breath, Dean does move, slowly, slowly stretching his legs out and rolling onto his back.

His feet hit something solid before he's moved much, the resulting thud oddly familiar. He's still halfway scrunched up; legs now folded awkwardly to the side.

The rumbling behind him grows louder yet, almost like a dull purr, almost like…

With shaking hands, Dean reaches out to the darkness in front of him. His fingers brush over cool metal, not a foot from his face, rough indentations and bare circuitry, because, he realizes, there's no headliner.

No headliner in the trunk.

No headliner in the trunk of the Impala.

"Aw, HELL no."

------------------------------------------------------------------

Big thoughts. Really big thoughts. Wide open prairie. Football fields. Mountains. Endless desert. Empty highway. Cars. Trunks. Coffins.

"Shit." Dean breathes. There's no distracting himself from this. Bad enough those guys got the jump on him, bad enough they shoved him in the trunk of a car, but, no, they had to go and put him in the trunk of his own car. It was enough to hurt a guy's pride.

And now who knows where, or more importantly, _who_ was driving.

He'd already run through all of his options. No cell phone. The Impala was too dang old to have one of those safety escape latches and he was lying on top of every tool he could possibly use to pick the lid open. There would never be enough space or leverage to get the false bottom open, no matter how he contorted himself.

Which left him with lying and waiting and counting on the one person that could possibly get him out of this.

Sam.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

"Hi." Sam grins and sticks his hand out for the priest to shake. "I'm from the CIA."

The old priest raises an eyebrow. "The CIA?"

"CRS. I meant the CRS," Sam says quickly and laughs, trying to cover his flub. "I just…um…a little joke there. Sorry."

"Right." The priest nods skeptically and returns Sam's handshake loosely. "Funny."

"Yeah, um…anyway." Sam presses his lips together. "We just wanted to drop by and offer our condolences on the loss of Father Henry."

"Thank you." The priest moves away a few steps and sinks down onto a pew, gesturing for Sam to join him. "It's been quite a mess around here."

"I can imagine. No one informed us of the details. How exactly did he pass?"

The priest sighs and closes his eyes. "Murder."

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Dean taps his fingers on his stomach, swallowing hard and focusing on trying not to cough. They, whoever is driving, would be able to hear and he'd rather not deal with that. They could just go on thinking he was still out of it.

His throat itches and burns though and he's certain it must be swollen. It doesn't help that he was already dying of thirst before he even got out of the car. Who knows how long ago that was. He would kill for a glass of water, or soda, or Lord _coffee_, right about now.

He takes another careful breath, but it catches somewhere between his throat and his heart and he chokes. The string of hacking gasps that erupts from his mouth is uncontrollable, and loud, not even muffled by the fist he presses to his lips.

The air in the trunk, or lack thereof, is claustrophobically warm as he tries to steady himself without success. Somewhere outside of his struggles, he is aware of the downshifting rumble of the engine and then the moment when it ceases altogether.

The doors open, that familiar creak like a nail being pulled from wood. There are heavy footsteps on gravel, and then the hollow sound of the key sliding into the lock on the trunk.

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"So the police don't have any leads?"

"No." The old priest shakes his head. "Such a strange thing. The robbery and the murder of the attendant next door, Henry disappears and then shows up days later, dead in his own home. The things people do these days…just don't make much sense."

"I guess not," Sam agrees.

"Why would anyone do that and then return him to us?" The priest asks forlornly.

"I…don't know. Like you said, it doesn't make much sense."

"I suppose the only thing we can do is wait and forgive."

"That's very good advice."

"It's my job to give advice," the priest remarks quietly. "I can only hope that it's good." He looks over at Sam. "Will you be attending the service tomorrow?"

"I'm not sure how long I'll be in town, but I'll try to stop by." Sam stands, shifting toward the door. "Thank you. It was good to meet you."

"Good to meet you, too. Good of the CRS to send someone."

Sam nods, waving and heading quickly for the door.

The priest was helpful. Henry really was the upstanding gentleman he appeared to be, the victim of a crime that he was completely uninvolved in..

Shaking his head, Sam pushes open the side door and steps out into the alley. He turns right, towards where he thought Dean had parked, but the car isn't there. Frowning, he turns around, expecting the car to be there, Dean sitting in the driver's seat laughing at him. But the alleyway is empty and dark.

Sam turns around again. "Dean?"

"Sam?"

Sam turns again, startled. Behind him, there in the dim light of the streetlamp stands a lone, ghostly figure.

"Henry."

The priest stands there, alone and frowning, very much without the Impala, and very much without Dean.

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When the trunk lid pops open, Dean isn't ready for it. He can hardly breathe and the sudden light burns his bloodshot eyes. He blinks and coughs and props himself up, waiting for his vision to clear.

The two figures that stand there are the same men from the church alley, he guesses. Black ski masks still in place. One holds the can of pepper spray, ready to use it again if necessary, while the other holds a duffel bag and a gun, apparently ready to use that as well.

Dean resists the urge to rub his eyes, instead, sitting up slowly and holding his hands out calmly. "Hey, you know guys," he rasps. "If you really wanted a test drive all you had to do was ask."  
"Funny man," one of them remarks, though Dean can't quite tell which. Their voices are too low and their mouths are entirely covered by the masks.

"I like to think so." Dean smiles and coughs.

They don't laugh or move, eyes eerily empty and stony in the low light.

"I seen you," one of them finally says, as if that should explain all.

"I see you too, pal."

The man with the pepper spray shoves it forward threateningly and Dean leans back, bumping his head on the trunk lid and raising his hands in front of his face, but the spray doesn't come.

"I _seen_ you," the man says again. "You and your partner. In Indiana, you took my car." There's a smile in his voice as he continues and gestures to the Impala. "Now, I took yours."

"Not exactly a fair trade."

The man who spoke snorts and glances at his partner, gestures to Dean with the gun. "This guy don't know when to shut up."

"Yeah, well, what can I say?" Dean smiles. "It's a curse."

And sometimes, he thinks, it really does feel that way. Especially now, as both the gun and pepper spray are leveled in his direction. And he's got to say, if he really had to choose…

"Where's the car?"

"Indiana," Dean answers smoothly.

"What'd you do with the body?"

"Oh? You mean Henry?" Dean waves his hand flippantly. "He's in the backseat."

The men exchange a glance.

"Maybe you aren't hearing right," the other says. "We seen you take the car. We seen you take the body. And we seen you leave the body at that church. Now, just give us a reason not to put a bullet in your head."

Dean watches them carefully. He could always try telling the truth, but they'd probably think he was kidding around again. He doubted their ability to actually kill someone in cold blood, they'd gone to the trouble of poisoning Henry just to avoid it, but then again, people do surprise you sometimes. Either way, all they really want to hear is that no one knows who they are or what they've done. And Dean can do that.

He opens his mouth and takes a breath, ready to spin a great story about how very little he knows, but his breath catches again and he gags, coughing and choking, trying to swallow past his paralyzed larynx.

The men exchange another look.

One shrugs and the other nods.

The man with the bag reaches inside it, fishing around and eventually pulling out a full bottle of clear liquid. He holds it out, the fluid sparkling like cut glass under the streetlight.

"Want some water?"

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_tbc..._


	5. Chapter 5: New January 18th

_A/N: Two words for ya...Joplin and Sam-fu. :)_

_-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Men of Faith, Chapter 5

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"Henry?" Sam asks, taking a hesitant step toward the ghost. "Father?"

At the end of the alley, Henry stands with his head bowed, his normally translucent features nearly luminous.

Sam hadn't realized, all this time Henry, or his body, had been sitting or laying in the backseat, how tall the Father was. But as Henry lifts his head, he meets Sam's eyes evenly, volumes spoken there in sadness and loss.

"What is it?" Sam asks, moving until he's just a few feet from the spirit. "What happened?"

"I know," Henry whispers.

"What?" Sam breathes.

Henry lifts his eyes to the convenience store on their right. "Two men. Robbed that store, and shot the…they shot the attendant. And I…I saw it, Sammy. That's all. That's why."

Sam takes a breath, prepared to apologize, a knee-jerk reaction. _I'm sorry. I'm sorry for your loss_. But, it just isn't fitting. They deal with death all the time, but it isn't like this. There aren't people.

He lifts his chin. "Where's Dean?"

"With the car."

"He left?"

Henry shakes his head, frowns. "They took him."

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It's like pulling teeth to get the full story out of Henry, or maybe it just feels that way as Sam dances nervously in front of him. Feels like forever before they get as far as, "So they took the car _and_ Dean?"

"Yes." Henry nods. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry." Sam laughs. "That's perfect."

Henry looks at him like he's lost his fool mind.

"Okay, not perfect," Sam addends quickly. He digs in his pocket for his phone and pulls it out. "But it's good." He presses a few buttons and holds it out to show Henry, the tiny screen now displaying a street map.

"GPS." Sam grins. "We can find them."

"Well." Henry smiles, not quite grasping the technology.

"Do you know where this is?" Sam asks, reading off the street names and address.

"That's just the other side of town. Not a twenty minute drive."

"Great." Sam shoves his phone in his pocket and starts down the street, only realizing after a few long strides that Henry isn't following. He turns around and jogs the few steps back. "Aren't you coming?"

Henry shrugs. "I can't."

Sam gazes at the sidewalk behind and in front of him with wide eyes. "Is it…is it like a wall?"

"No." Henry smiles sadly. "No. I just…I can't do it." He lifts his eyes to the church, stained glass windows glowing now, illuminating the night sky with their color. "I think I can go in now."

"Oh." Sam takes a deep breath. "Okay." He feels like maybe he should hug Henry, that seems pretty appropriate, but Henry is just a spirit, just energy and light and a soul, and Sam knows his arms would pass right through.

He extends his right arm for a handshake anyway.

Henry does the same, a tired glint in his eye. When their fingers meet, Henry's pass through Sam's with a bone deep coldness that leaves an ache Sam will feel for days.

"Well." Henry shifts awkwardly. "I'll see you around then. Thank you."

"It's our job." Sam smiles slowly.

"And you're good at it."

With a nod, the urgency of finding Dean fast weighing on him, Sam turns and takes off down the sidewalk, Henry's voice echoing after him.

"Good luck. Take care, kid."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sam runs a mile before he picks up a cab, rambling off the address breathlessly as he climbs in the backseat.

The driver eyes him hesitantly, so Sam shoves a twenty-dollar bill through the Plexiglas window to make him drive. Fast.

He hadn't been in the church all that long, if he got there fast enough, maybe Dean would be okay. Maybe the goons that took him hadn't had time to even think about what they were going to do yet.

Sam knows they hadn't really hurt Henry, hadn't really beaten on him or anything. These guys were probably trying to keep their hands clean. And Sam knows that Dean knows that Henry had been killed by poison. No way could his brother be dumb enough to eat or drink anything those guys gave him. No way. Dean was smarter than that…wasn't he?

Swallowing thickly, Sam taps on the glass and motions at the driver to go faster.

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It's when he climbs out of the cab, stepping onto the dirty asphalt of a motel parking lot, that Sam realizes how entirely unprepared he is.

The motel looks more like prison barracks, a long row of bare cement block walls, tall, gray doors and dark windows. It's worse than most of the places they stay in.

The Impala is sitting in the far, shadowed corner of the lot, empty and alone.

Sam makes his way toward the car slowly, carefully, casually tossing glances toward the rooms as he goes. They're all dark, save one, a sliver of light visible in the space between closed curtains.

When he reaches the car, he ducks behind it on the far side, completely hidden from the row of motel windows. Edging up, he peers in the windows. The car is empty of people, but otherwise just as it had been the last time he'd seen it, a few hours prior. Fast food sandwich wrappers, scattered newspapers, clothing, and empty, plastic soda bottles. Henry's green, army blanket is still shoved in the corner next to a duffel bag and a stolen motel pillow, and next to that on the seat, not even trying to be hidden, is a loaded, silver Magnum. Dean's gun.

Sam swallows thickly and realizes he may be dealing with complete idiots. The thought doesn't bring him as much relief as it should. He reaches for the door handle and slowly, silently pulls on it. The door creaks open.

Yep, definitely not Harvard material here.

Still, if the guys had managed to take Dean down, they had to have some bulk. Heavy in the brawn department and lacking in the brains. Sam could handle that.

Snatching the gun off the seat, Sam eases the door closed again. He could just wire the car and go, call the cops, get Dean later, but he couldn't depend on the fact that there would be a later for his brother.

In a slouched sort of duck walk, Sam makes his way to the motel walls and waddles down to the lit window, the only room showing any sign of occupation. The muffled sounds of the TV float through the thin door, but over that, just barely, Sam can hear two voices, real voices conversing. Deeper and distinctly lyrical, maybe southern or mountain accents, marking the difference between them and the television.

Two options then, Sam considers. He could ambush or he could watch and wait. Wouldn't John be proud now.

Too quickly, the decision is made for him. The door swings open and a man steps out. He's stocky and wide, gives new meaning to barrel-chested and wears a black ski mask, folded up to his forehead, like a regular hat.

He takes two steps out, doesn't even close the door before he sees Sam. "What the hell are you doing?"

There's nowhere to duck to, nothing to hide. Sam straightens up slowly and tries to smile, presses his lips together tightly when his heart threatens to climb up his throat and right out his mouth. "Sorry, I, uh, I just lost a contact lens here." He makes a show of studying the concrete beneath his feet, glancing around and squinting.

"Right," the man drawls.

"Yeah." Sam glances up at him. "Hey, could you help me? I mean, I can't really see." He closes one eye and rubs it with the back of his hand.

The man stares at him for a long moment and then he snorts and looks away.

Another voice drifts out of the open door. "Who you talking to?"

Sam watches as the man in front of him turns away, very nearly giving him his back to reply. "Some fool out here lost his…"

The rest of his words are choked out in surprise as Sam reaches forward and grabs the back of his shirt, spins him around and shoves him hard against the wall. Dazed, the man stumbles backward. Sam hooks an arm around his neck and pulls Dean's Magnum from his coat pocket.

From inside the motel room, there are footsteps approaching the door. There's no time to think about it, no time at all really. Sam pulls the big man with him, kicks the door open and stumbles in, kicks the door back shut once they're inside and presses the gun up under the man's chin. "Where's my brother?"

The second, smaller man stares at them with cartoonishly huge eyes. "Holy…"

"Shut up." Sam waves the gun in his direction before settling it back under his captive's chin. He takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself and think. It's been awhile since he's felt like this. This crazy, so much adrenaline coursing through his blood he can taste it sour on his tongue. And he's certain, he has never felt such hate for another human being as he does for these two men. Two _people_, not demons, who should know what is right and wrong. "Where…" He swallows and tries again. "Where is he?"

The gun barrel moves as the man in his hold shifts to talk. "We don't know you, man. We don't know your brother." He's too calm, too collected for the situation and Sam releases him with a furious twist and shove. When the man is a step away, Sam swings the gun's butt end, connects to his forehead with a hollow sounding thud and the man drops.

He levels the weapon again, concentrating entirely on the second man now, lips trembling as he tries to speak. "Where?"

"Aw, man," the guy whines, gazing at his fallen companion.

"Where?" Sam repeats, his lip curling upward.

"We gave him some stuff…"

The gun trembles in Sam's hands, twitches off aim and he struggles to hold it steady. "Where is he?"

The man sighs. "In the car."

"Car's empty."

"Look, man, don't freak out, alright?"

"Give me a reason."

"The trunk."

Sam pauses and frowns. "What?"

"In the car," the man explains, like Sam is the slow one. "The trunk of the car?"

Sam dares a glance back toward the door. He can't see out it, of course, but he can remember the Impala in his mind clear as anything, sitting in the corner of the lot, black as the night itself, and cold too. And Dean is out there, locked inside like an old toy, worn out and stuffed away in the closet. It isn't right.

He points the gun at the man in front of him. "The closet."

"What about it?"

"Get in it!" It's nearly the thing to break him, just having to explain this and when the criminal doesn't immediately comply, Sam tackles him and shoves him in amidst the wire hangers and laundry bags. A chair is shoved under the knob and without a second thought, Sam takes off.

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The parking lot is just as it was, still and quiet, no one around. Sam's shoes echo his heart, an empty slapping beat as he jogs to the car. It's quick work to pick the lock on the trunk, he'll find the keys later, whenever, it doesn't matter, only getting the thing open does.

The lock clicks and clinks and he takes a breath and pulls up on the trunk lid.

Dean doesn't even look real, Sam thinks. He looks like an injured bird, curled up in the pit of the trunk like it's his nest. His eyes are closed and he doesn't move. Near his limp right hand is an empty, plastic bottle.

Sam grips at the trunk's edge. "Dean?"

One eye pops open. "Sam?"

Something between a laugh and a sigh chokes its way out of Sam's throat. "Are you…did you…did they…."

Dean sits up slowly, uncurling from his possum pose. He looks up at Sam. "Took you long enough."

Sam eyes the empty water bottle. "You didn't…did you…Dean?"

"No way." Dean scoffs. "How stupid do I look?" At Sam's appraising gaze, he addends, "Don't answer that." With what looks to be a practiced sort of roll and hop, Dean is out of the trunk and on his feet.

Sam reaches out to steady him, but Dean brushes him off, glancing around the parking lot with narrowed eyes. "Alright." He frowns. "Where are they?"

"I took care of it," Sam tells him.

Dean's eyes widen in surprise and then he frowns even deeper. "_Really_ took care of them?"

Sam digs out his cell phone. "Just one call I've got to make to the Gallup City PD."

Dean glances between the motel and his brother. "You're sure…they don't need…I don't know, taken care of?"

"I just said I--"

"I know, I know. I mean, can't I just…" He sighs and runs a hand along the Impala's roof. "They _took_ her and _drove_ her, man. I've got to do something about that."

"They took you too, Dean," Sam says, wishing it didn't sound so much like an argument. He shouldn't have to prove to Dean that he matters. He's a whole lot more important than the car.

Dean waves a hand in dismissal. "That's different."

"You're different."

Dean pauses in surprise, before shaking his head and grinning. "Shut up."

Sam shrugs, a smile pulling at his lips as he watches Dean climb into the car.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

The streets are dead empty when they drive by the church. Sam steers toward the curb and stops for a moment.

Dean leans over to peer out the driver's side window. "I think," he says. "I think he's gone."

"Yeah." Sam sighs. "I guess so."

"We're not going to have to pray again, are we?"

Sam pauses, not really having thought of it. He shrugs. "Wouldn't hurt."

"Oh, Lord." Dean sighs dramatically. "It might." Sam watches as Dean heaves another long-suffering sigh and closes his eyes. "Oh, Lord," he says again and then a slow smile begins to creep across his face. "Oh, Lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz?"

Sam frowns. "Dean?"

"My friends all drive Porsches, I must make amends."

"Dean, stop."

"Worked hard all my lifetime, no help from my friends."

"It's not funny."

"So, Lord," he croons. "Won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz?"

Sam stares at him. "Are you done?"

Dean smiles. "Yes."

"Great." Sam leans forward to put the car in drive. With one last glance back at the church, eyes searching for what isn't there, he steps on the gas.

Dean is quiet for a while, relaxing as Sam drives, until they reach the highway and Sam merges on with the eastbound traffic. "Where're we heading?"

Sam glances over. "I looked into that Rawhead case you mentioned. It's in South Dakota."

"Like I said." Dean nods. "One of them states in the middle."

"Are you up for it?"

"Sure. Sounds like fun."

"Yeah," Sam agrees sarcastically. "Fun."

"Hey, as long as there aren't any dead bodies involved," Dean says. "Or small, dark spaces. Or preachers. Or any people at all, really. I could use a nice, simple demon right now."

"All right." Sam nods and steps on the gas, feeling the rumble of the car as it accelerates. "I think we can do that."

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_end..._


End file.
